It all starts in utero. It’s not a conscious decision, but one you ponder endlessly anyway. That glob of cells… is there a heartbeat? I’m 16 weeks… why haven’t I felt the baby move? Is that a Braxton-Hicks contraction or a baby-is-on-its way contraction? I haven’t felt the baby move. I can’t hold down water. For me it was: I have a bad backache and something that feels like heartburn. It all ends in the same question:

SHOULD I CALL A DOCTOR?

For me, pregnancy was easier. There wasn’t a helpless child in front of me. I wasn’t feeling well but I can feel the baby move. The baby is good. I didn’t want to be that woman who calls the doctor for every little thing. I was sustaining life with MY MIND and damnit, that makes me hardcore and if that means dealing with a bit of pain then so fucking be it. Well, we all know how that turned out. I didn’t want to be a pest so I suffered in silence without making a phone call. I figured I’d mention it at the next regularly scheduled OBGYN appointment, if it was still bothering me. My pride/meekness/laissez-faireness could have killed myself and my baby. Thank goodness concern rose above my obstinance and I called the doctor about the pain. Evan was born 6 hours later.

All bets were completely off when you have a sick baby in front of you.

That newborn with a fever? Did that: December 1st (Our 1 year wedding anniversary), 2am, ER. The book from the pediatrician said any baby under 3 months with a fever over 101 needs to be seen immediately. I called after hours. I was told to go to the ER. The ER doctor tried to scare us with a spinal tap “if we really want to find out what’s wrong, but I’m sure it’s just a virus and you don’t want to put your baby through that dooooooooo? yooooooouuuuu??” I was annoyed; he was making me feel awful for coming in and wanting to know what was wrong and I hadn’t even pressed the question. It was drowned out by the relief I felt because Evan was OK. But lemme tell you, if the euphoria high of relief were not coursing through my veins, I would have slapped the bastard. I’m not a fucking doctor. He would have been much more annoyed if I acted like I was. Not only was I worried, but I was directed to go there. I paid for the service with my cash and some good insurance. I am Evan’s advocate. Get irritated the with the parents who refuse to be an advocate for their children. Treat me with some respect, please.

I am now in toddler illness hell. For a child that is obsessed with washing his hands and a mother obsessed with Clorox, you’d think we’d have a fairly healthy kid. But no. Kids get sick. And with every. little. cough. you get to feel like a bit more of a failure of a parent. Woo! A sniffle! Go me.

I don’t, I swear I don’t, send my child with the doctor with every little cough he gets. I don’t call the nurse’s line with each sniffle. I don’t go to the ER for every fever. When I feel it’s necessary, I do. If I’m extra worried and I need reassurances, I do. (They don’t call it a Mother’s Instinct for nothin’.) But you know what? Who cares if someone does go in for every little thing? I mean, really? They go to someone, pay for a service… who really cares if it’s not necessary? Like getting your oil changed every 100 miles. (Which reminds me…) Change my oil and take my money… YOU’RE WELCOME.

This is not to say you should go to the ER for a splinter because they have to treat you even if you can’t pay. This isn’t saying you should insist to be seen first by a busy doctor with sicker patients. But I should feel free to schedule an appointment. For no reason other that I want a doctor to take a look-see at my child. I have insurance. I’m going to pay. Please provide me service.

Parents don’t want to be that person. The one always calling the doctor. Worried about every hangnail. I know I don’t. And I know that sometimes I pause before I call the doctor because of it. I look at my child with a 105 fever and worry that if I call they doctor they might scoff at me because their book SAYS that a 105 fever is nothing to be worried about. I’ll lose sleep… not because of another $20 co-pay or the fact that I’m out of vacation hours… I’ll lose sleep because I don’t want the doctor to not take me seriously because I bring my child in too much. I feel stupid typing that.I am Evan’s advocate. He can’t roll his eyes at me because I’m being silly and call the doctor himself. He can’t even tell me what hurts. I have to be the one that describes the slight change in Evan’s behaviour or sleeping habits. I have to detail his appetite. That’s my job. Being that I’m not a medical expert, I tell the doctor the symptoms. That’s their job.

My tirade comes from an odd batch of symptoms Evan has been producing lately… fevers, rash, peeling fingertips and toes. Weird. I called the nurses line and she tells me it’s no big deal and I’m OK with that answer and I go about my merry way. The next day there’s more weirdness so I get uncomfortable and call again. This time I want to see a doctor. Hi, if you don’t think something is wrong I’d like to just come in… a doctor can take a look and put my mind at ease. I got sighed at. I heard the rolling of eyes over the phone. As in, “I’d like to bring him in for an appointment” then, “*sigh* holdon.” It infuriates me. Rudeness. To a customer. To a worried mother. Fuck that.

(From here on in, you must do some mental jazz hands every time you read LAS VEGAS to get the full effect.

Let’s practice:

LAS VEGAS!

You guys are awesome.)

Our final plan was to meet everyone at our hotel. Take a limo about an hour north to the Valley of Fire state park and get married among the red rocks. Then we were going to trek back to LAS VEGAS and have some dinner at Battista’s Hole in the Wall. Then it was everyone for themselves.

Let me first introduce you to Fancy.

Fancy was my kinda gal. White, cheap and in the need for some lovin’. We found her on the clearance rack at a local wedding dress boutique. Her zipper was dodgy and she had some loose strings but she fit and $59. $59. Fifty nine frickin’ dollars! EVERYTHING ELSE I purchased for the wedding was much more expensive than her. So she was christened Fancy. (After the Reba McIntyre song, Fancy. “Here’s your one chance Fancy don’t let me dooooowwwnnn.”)

MOH4L* Stephanie went dress shopping with me. I’m sure she saw more skin than she cared to. I think she took it well… look how happy she is here:

(*Maid Of Honor For Life – because I read somewhere that once she’s in that position she has to do defend me forever. The trip to LAS VEGAS sealed the deal. She’s easy. Don’t tell her I said that. Don’t worry… she doesn’t read my blog.)

Wayne and I left for LAS VEGAS with a foot of snow on the ground and my little Civic that had a slow leak in one tire. We were way prepared for that and brought a tire-blower-upper thingy that plugs into the cigarette lighter. What we were NOT prepared for was the dead battery we came home to but I digress.

We made our home in the Paris because I stayed there before and liked their bathrooms. Wayne made his first ever wedding decision and asked for a smoking room at the front desk. Eww. I went out and bought candles immediately. I whined about how Fancy was going to smell like smoke. I may or may not still bitch about it to this day.

We were real nice and planned the wedding for December 1st and let everyone know about it in October. We’re thoughtful like that. Even so we had most of our important people fly out to be with us. Wayne even had HIS BOYS:

The day before our wedding it rained. In LAS VEGAS. It’s a desert. No fair! I spent the night with Stephanie in the hotel room watching the Weather Channel. Religiously. My internal clock woke me up every hour to get an update. S-T-R-E-S-S. It was in the 60’s and it might rain. On my outdoor wedding. With my 73 year old grandmother in attendance. ARG!

Morning of: No rain. Wind. HELLA WIND. Whoa doggie. I had my hairs did at the salon upstairs and he promised the curl would hold. He wasn’t kidding. My hair was still curly when I woke up the next day.

Grandma and Uncle Mark arrived from Arizona in the nick of time. Grandma of course had some time to take in some poker machines downstairs. Priorities People! We’re in LAS VEGAS! They were heading right back to the airport after dinner.

The whole gang was there. We were off to the beautiful park!

Then Oh My Fuck. No one told me we were walking up a canyon. That my grandmother with COPD and Stephanie’s flip flops on was going to have to walk up a canyon. But of course, she did with no bitching and was the first one up there.

Then suddenly. It started. Our wedding. After 6 years of “patiently” waiting we were getting married! And the officiant could not be heard above my inner dialogue.

“OMG, we’re getting married!”

“Shut it Amber. You’re in the middle of the ceremony. Concentrate! What if you’re asked a question? I think there’s a question that gets asked in there!”

“You’re still inner dialogue-ing, Amber!”

“Who knew I’d be thinking these thoughts as we were getting married?”

“STFU AMBER!”

Also the pastor kept addressing Wayne as Don. I almost stopped him to tell him he had the wrong info before I remembered that my in-the-process-of-being-married-to husband’s name is Donald Wayne. I’m on top of things.

Wayne’s wedding ring could have easily fit around my wrist. If there was a Big and Tall department in the jewelry store, he would have had to shop there. The ring you see here (not his wedding ring) is his late grandfather’s Teamsters ring.

Everyone was on their feet. People thought they were successfully hiding beer cans. No one sat in the seats for which I picked this place out for because who wants to stand the whole time? My peeps do, that’s who.

At last! It was done. Wayne was hitched. That wagon would be me. You know, a skinny wagon with sparkley wheels.

It was beautiful there and Fancy done good.

Here are all of our lovely guests that ended up being prettier than me.

Then we all piled in and headed back to LAS VEGAS! To celebrate, we popped some bubbly.

Which I can’t stand. Then off to dinner! I ordered spaghetti and ate none of it. Between being nervous and wearing white I just sipped water and then gulped down the cappuccino they serve at the end of the course. That has crack in it. Seriously. Go here next time you’re in LAS VEGAS if only for the cappuccino with crack.

Then we had the cake to cut. In the middle of a crowded restaurant. We had lots of onlookers. I felt GLAMOROUS. That was until Wayne shoved cake UP MY NOSE. I got a little twinkle in my eye and got a little cake on his chin and he gets all revengey so I got buttercreme UP MY NOSE!

After emptying a tissue box, we walked about LAS VEGAS. And my feet hurt. So I walked around barefoot. It was wonderful. In Cesar’s Palace some chicks waiting to get in the club told me I looked beautiful. We were spoiled by the staff when we sat down to gamble. They wanted to load me up with alcohol. I’m a lightweight. A featherweight! And it’s icky. You heard me.

Later, my husband took me back to the hotel room, helped me out of my dress and… dropped me off. I was exhausted. What? We’d been living together for 6 years already and we were in LAS VEGAS! He went out to enjoy the night with his friends and family. I soaked my poor funky feet in the bathtub. I think he got in at 4am.

Later we had LAS VEGAS to ourselves. We did all the touristy things and we gambled and we ordered room service and movies.

It was done. I was Mrs. McNamara. 42 days later I would be with child. Insta-Family!

Years and years and years ago my mind was a mess. As you remember I’m Bipolar. I was always depressed and never consistent with my medication (if I was even taking it). Like a lot of people with similar issues, I had what some call “suicidal ideation”. I had an out. I had a plan. It was like my morbid little teddy bear… if things got hairy I could snuggle up to that. Things weren’t so bad if I always had that. That was also my little secret. Not many knew of my plan and those that did never knew about my back-up plans. I could tearfully confess that my teddy bear was there, destroy said teddy bear with the confessee and proclaim absolution, smile and grab other teddy bear out of hiding. Safe.

You might not understand how safe it feels to have a plan. On the outside looking in, things may not seem that safe at all. Life is precarious on a hair trigger (That would have been HILARIOUS a few years ago). You spend days terrified that something will set off your loved one and the plan gets carried out. It’s terrifying to think about. But to me… it was safe.

Why the hell am I talking about suicide? Well, because things have changed for me. And things have not changed for a lot of other people. Things may not have changed for you. But it can.

This was my mind during the time of the teddy bear:

Confusing and loaded. There was nothing in there that told me, “Ya know Amber, that’s kinda fucked up.” And anyone that would say that (and many people did)… it just wouldn’t get processed.

Then Wayne came along. My husband is NOT a bullshitter and he certainly isn’t going to tell you what you want to hear. ESPECIALLY when it comes to this. He told me that if I committed suicide he would not go to my funeral but he may drop by later to piss on my grave.

The hell?

At first I was kinda pissed. I’m fragile, damnit! Kid gloves, sir! His view was that he loved me. He wanted me around as did a couple other people (heh), he said it would be selfish to do such a thing. And then I thought about people being pissed off at me after I was safe and felt like shit.

At long last my teddy bears were gone. Not forgotten, but not there. Wanted, but not an option. At first I felt trapped. Then I felt safe… with him. He became my Permanent Marker. He covered up some of the confusion and disaster in my mind. It was still there, but I really couldn’t get to it:

A few more years crept by and my biological clock was ticking JUST! LIKE! THIS! Then this guy came into play:

I knew that of course there would be no more thoughts. No more plans. I “knew” it like I “knew” getting cut in half for him wasn’t going to hurt. I convinced myself of it. I was a big fat FAIL if not.

Evan came along and suddenly things changed again. He was my Eraser:

Poof! It was gone. ALMOST not even there. But there’s some residue left behind and I’m glad for that. I need to remember what it was like to feel that way. I need to try to recognize those souls that are cuddling with that teddy bear when I’m not looking. And, I guess, I had to tell you.

I always question my diagnosis of Bipolar. I’ve been inked with the stamp of BIPOLAR II. This is a fancy name for serious depression with cycling hypomanic episodes.

I often wonder if I actually have manic moments or if I could just have depression. Then I remember that time I spent all night brush-scrubbing my white painted walls with Clorox bleach and then WIPING all the walls with a cloth with Clorox cleaner and finally wiping the walls down with water because the smell of bleach was thick and then vomiting because FUMES! By 3am the apartment was aired out and I was pacing and freaking out because the walls were cleaner than the floors. So I put away the ladder and got down on my hands and knees and cleaned those with a brush. Then I used a tiny toothbrush for the grout whose bristles wore down to half their original size by the time I was done and then I threw up again because BLEACH IS THE ONLY THING THAT CLEEEEEEANS! I’ve taken out drawers and polished the backs of them because don’t they get dirty too? OF COURSE THEY DO.

My manic episodes usually consist of irritation (to put it oh-so-delicately), speed-talking, being an extrovert when normally my idea of a party is reading a book in bed by myself and needing everything to be JUST SO. My manic times also refuse to believe in the magic of AMBIEN and 5 of those motherfuckers will not quiet my brain enough for sleep. And you know those hospital dramas where someone is all crazy or spazzing out and a doctor yells out, “Ativan, STAT!”? I take an Ativan every night and when I’m manic I keep taking them until I go down which can sometimes be about 48 hours. Dozens of those little pills won’t make the mania go away.

Not to say I’m some sort of monster. I’m quite normal. Thanks to my miracle doctor, Dr A and some good old fashion tough love from my husband and myself. I’ve been on the same meds for years now and I take them religiously. You might see me cry or I may clean your house but you won’t see the crazy.

But I can feel it.

Especially now. August marks a yearly decline in my own little private roller coaster. By September, I’m normally think in the muck. The funny thing is that I don’t usually recognise it. Every year without fail, (except last year while I was pregnant because, let me tell you, an occupied uterus really made all the bad shit go away), I make a frantic call my Dr A’s office to schedule an appointment right now. I’ll burst into his office worried sometimes crying and always saying the same thing, “It’s getting bad. I can’t figure out why. I’m not sleeping but I go straight to bed when I get home and I can’t get out of bed in the morning. I’m always crying, I’m being a complete bitch to everyone. I’m having panic attacks all the time. I can’t concentrate or remember anything. I’m hurting. I’m sick.” Dr. A will stare at me for a moment and deadpan, “It’s August.” Oh.

This year I’m at the top of the hill bracing myself for the plunge down. I’m forcing myself out of the house by scheduling my free time in advance. I’m holding myself accountable for every move I make. I’m staring at my son who depends on me.

I’m so lucky that I have found the right combination of tricks that help me cope. A good base of medication. A few prescriptions for emergency only. A husband that understands the disease but still doesn’t put up with my shit. An awareness of my emotions and what actions they cause. A knowledge of what’s happening to my body that I can refer to when I get unreasonable. And most importantly, I hold myself accountable for my actions. No matter what state of play my brain chemicals are in. No matter how bad I’m hurting I do everything I can to minimize the effect it has on those around me.

But don’t get it twisted, I’m hurting none-the-less. Those little tricks I have? They take the edge off and make the crazy invisible to the rest of the world. I hope. It took a looooong (all those ooo’s mean reallllly long) time to get those tricks mastered. Yet every year I’m terrified the depression is going to go deeper than the tricks.

Does your baby try to suck on other people’s boobs when you’re not watching?

Has your baby lost interest in that place he shouldn’t be going into or the box his toys came in or your remote?

Does your baby forget that you told him “NO” or when nap time should be or does he have other “black outs”?

If you’ve answered YES to 2 or more of the questions above, your baby may have a drinking problem. It may be time to provide more solid foods such as diced cooked carrots, fresh blueberries or even ketchup if you’re feeling lazy. If those are not an option, try to refrain from vacuuming your home and your baby will find nutrients on your floors. DON’T LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOUR BABY!

So yesterday I get an email from Mr. Northwestbballkiller via my Flickr account:

Hi my name is xxxxx first off. Let me kind of explain what I am wanting and what for it is kind of a long story lol. ok I think of crazy things while at work being bored out of my mind and i thought of a funny t-shirt design it will say bitches get stitches but…. i wanted a dog with stitches which is were you come in lol. i got off work and searched and came across this picture www.flickr.com/photos/ambersphoto/447163331i would like to make a t shirt with this image. I won’t be making money off of it or anything just kind of think it as a hilarious idea I wan’t to go through with. I’m sure i could just use the picture and no one would no but im not that kind of person i suppose so all im asking is permission to use the image. I will even send you a shirt when its finished.

Yes, that really just happened. Try to contain your need to proof that mess glee.

Mr. Northwestbbalkiller, a daydreamer and stuck in a dead-end job that does nothing to stimulate his vast imagination, needs this photo to achieve his goals/aspirations/dreams:

This is a photo of my bitch with some stitches. Or rather my then nine year old dog, Angel, recovering from a triple mastectomy and a hysterectomy. She had breast cancer* and got spayed.

(PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Get your girl dogs spayed people. Not only does it control the pet population a la Bob Barker, but it also lowers the chance of breast cancer. Consider your loved one saved. You’re welcome.)

Back to Mr. Northwestbballkiller. I’m damn tempted to tell him to DO IT! ANGEL LURVES ATTENTION! And bitches = girl dogs… GET IT? Shit, that’s clever right there.

Although, I’m not entirely sure that bitches do get stitches. I’m pretty sure I’m a bitch and I have successfully AVOIDED stitches even counting the 2 surgeries I’ve had. I have been glued and stapled… Bitches get Glued & Stapled? Doesn’t really have the same ring.

So what ‘cha think? Let Mr. Northwestbballkiller use the photo since he so kindly asked? If so, should I insist on receiving one? Maybe Angel sized?

(If I gotta choose a coast I gotta choose the west and if you don’t listen to Biggie then you have no idea what I’m talking about. You know, the usual.)

Once a year I fly out to Arizona where I used to make habitat and live and stuff. My Grandmother lives out there and I must see her at least once a year. No big whoop, right? Fly out, free room and board, a car at my disposal and she pays for my ticket even… (shoot it’s my Grandma, sometimes I make money out there. No really, even my FRIENDS make money out there.) Easy. Peasy.

Now. I have a baby. That has to go on a plane. On my lap even. You know, a child that I can’t bind up or duck tape or anything (in public). A yelly, skwormy baby that needs to eat and poops and spits up. A baby that will be confined to a 3×4 foot space on his mommy’s lap for four to five hours. I don’t think I have built up a large enough store of goofy faces (that I can use in public) to keep him occupied and un-yelly for that long.

Certainly there are protocols for this shit, yes? Because I never hear much ‘tips and tricks’ for flying with baby. Is this one of those things that ‘Everybody does it, but nobody talk about it’? Is this a taboo thing? Am I going to get flame-y comments?

The last time Evan was on a plane, he was in his 16th week of gestation. He was about the size of an avocado… here’s a reference for all you people out there that have never seen an avocado outside of guacamole. Evan was also encased in my womb which, I gotta tell ya, was very convenient. He had just started kicking a tiny bit, so even if he was throwing a fit I would have never known it.

Oh, I’ll know it now. Actually, not only will I know it, the people sitting in our row will know it. Come to think of it… the entire plane will know it. Including the pilots and those birds that fly next to the plane because they want to commit suicide in the airplane’s turbines. Once they hear that crying baby in the plane, those little birdies are going to go straight into those things because everyone wants to shut up a crying baby. Crying babies cause suicide and crash planes! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO FEEL GOOD ABOUT THIS??

Do you know what scares me the most? (Besides the whole ‘screaming-bloody-murder-during-flight’ thing?) Sitting in the airport waiting to board the plane. The other passengers will be walking up to the gate all happy-like and then they will see a woman alone with a baby. At their gate. They will then slow their walk… and sit carefully and speculatively. “Is that baby going to be on my plane?” They’ll wonder. “It’s a long flight, will he scream the entire time?” They’ll sneak glances at me over their newspapers. They will be praying so hard that we will not be sitting next to them that I will probably hear them. Other mothers will look at my boy and smile but in their head they will be willing him to fall asleep. The asleep that lasts four hours. I’m sure I’ll have my best, “I’m so fucking sorry” look on my face which I wish I was kidding about. I will take advantage of the ‘if you need assistance boarding or have a small child with you’ advanced boarding. We’ll sit. The other passengers will board and one will win the screamy baby lottery and they will be over bummed. I’M SO FUCKING SORRY.

I’ve gotten some advice. A new toy. Bottles for the ascent and decent. Children’s Benadryl *wink wink*. But I think I have my plan. And it goes a little something like this:

I will have one suitcase (Oh Emm Gee, I hope I can fit all of our stuff in one suitcase) and a backback carry-on and Evan in the Baby Bijorn. For all of you concerned about my shoulders and back: I know, right? Evan will be sitting on my lap all nice and free (from paying and from carseat.) I will have a little bottle of water for takeoff and landing.

My husband has these little individually packed sets of earplugs. I plan on having them with me. You know, “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!” “I’M SO SORRY!” “WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THE SCREAMING OF YOUR KID!” “I SAID I’M SO SORRY! HAVE SOME EARPLUGS!!” And then they will love me. I was thinking about clipping them to little packages of cookies, but they might think I laced then with Exlax Adult’s Benedryl. Which I totally wouldn’t do. Because, no, I wouldn’t want you to shut up more than I would want my son to shut up. Obviously. *cough*

My Uncle has borrowed a car seat and will be taking it and the car to a fire station in AZ to get it installed properly. My Grandma and I will be going out to purchase diapers and food and formula and such that he will need while there. If we need a stroller, I will go out and buy a cheap-o umbrella stroller. He will sleep in the bed with me (ACK!). He normally sits in a baby bath for baths so he will be taking baths with me in the tub while there (sorry, son… I hope I’m not scarring you for life). I’m not sure yet how I’m going to restrain him during feeding time. Any ideas?

So yeah, June 13th, Evan and I will be on our way to the desert. If you live between there and Michigan, don’t you worry… you’ll hear us.

So here I am in Texas looking out the 22 floor of some hotel in San Antonio. I cried after I left little Evan. He turned around for one last glace as I pulled out of the driveway. The flights were uneventful and on time. The hotel is like a place I would love to live in in the life before my son. (BTW: The only time I forced Evan out of my head was during sessions… otherwise he’s always right there, evaning me.) Evanyway, I wish I had this thrilling story to share with you but I am increadibly boring. I don’t drink. I go to sleep early. Sunday, I went to see Star Trek and there were 2 babies in the theater. So I was trying to see them as much as I was trying to see the movie. Otherwise I went on the Riverwalk twice and neither were to shoot photographs with the camera I lugged to Texas with me. I’m such a loser. A boring loser.

Anyway, I’ll be on an airevane tomorrow starting at 5pm. TX time. I should land in Michigan a few minutes before midnight. Then clear the damn roads! I will be flyin’ home to my sleepy baby. He’ll be sleeping on his Mommy’s chest in the glider all night long. I cannot wait!

Anywho… this is nothing but a bed-time, Ambien-riddled post. Sorry about that. I hope your bwain is OK.

I was the smuggiest smugger when I was pregnant. I can admit that. I’m an even smuggier mom. (As you can surely tell.) This is Smuggy Pregnant Amber in Arizona at 16 weeks 6 days gestation. It was taken by Stephanie exactly a year ago (5 days ago)! Oddly enough my Mother tells me that “I” was in Arizona when I was in her belly at about the same time of my gestation. (Gestation is such a smug word. Love it.)

Smugginess during pregnancy is as unavoidable as talking about your child poop as a mother. As soon as that fetus is in the womb, the smug chemicals leak out. This is as adorable as baby drool. Enjoy.

I mean, really. I’m walking 6 miles to save lives on Sunday. I can’t be expected to, I don’t know, take pictures too. So you get an oldy but a goody. And a nagger reminder to WALK and DONATE and SPREAD THE WORD!

Oh Hai. Wook how wittle I was… it’s embarrassing. How am I supposed to kick ass when I’m this small? Swaggering is difficult when you’re thin as a rail. Give so other bahbees come out plump. (Also embarrassing? This hat. Seriously, WTF?) I’m walking this Sunday… and I can’t even walk yet. How awesome is that? A long bubble bath with rubber duckies followed immediately with a big warm bottle- it’s that awesome.